By the time I reached the station, everything moved quickly in that controlled chaos we’re trained for—paramedics, lights, voices cutting through each other with purpose—but even in the middle of it, the dog never left the boy’s side.
“He’s alive because of that dog,” one of the paramedics told me later, her voice steady but her eyes carrying something heavier. “No question.”
I nodded, because there wasn’t anything else to say.
That should have been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Because systems don’t always know how to account for loyalty.
The social worker arrived with a clipboard and the kind of careful tone people use when they already know the answer won’t sit well.
“We’ve arranged placement for the child,” she said. “But the dog will need to be transferred to animal control.”
I stared at her, not fully processing at first. “You read the note?”
She hesitated. “Yes, but policy—”
